


Sirens Sound

by asexualshepard



Category: Critical Role (Web Series)
Genre: Fluff, M/M, Pre-Relationship, and caleb is endlessly awkward, fjord is big and gentle, flashes of reference to fjord's sailing days, they're both really gay and kind of dumb
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-03-21
Updated: 2018-03-21
Packaged: 2019-04-06 05:31:34
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,114
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14049969
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/asexualshepard/pseuds/asexualshepard
Summary: Caleb has blisters.Fjord can fix them.





	Sirens Sound

**Author's Note:**

> Alright. So.
> 
> I don't know what this is, to be honest. I'm still working on getting my fingers sunk into these characters, and I have a couple of other things I'd like to write if time and energy permits, but I figure this is a good jumping-off point. Huge thanks to both [@sleepyschmoop](https://sleepyschmoop.tumblr.com/) and [@losebetter](https://losebetter.tumblr.com/) for being enthusiastic cheerleaders as I climb back into my writing saddle <3
> 
> Also, I have no idea what theories I'm going with as to either of their backstories here. I left it vague intentionally, so... choose your favorites, I guess? If you want to? 
> 
> Anyways, any feedback is greatly appreciated. I haven't written for CR before, so I'm still not sure how much lore carried over from the last campaign. Thanks for reading! :D

Caleb is looking at his hands.

They’re not particularly easy to see in the dim candlelight of the inn’s common room, and his eyes aren’t as good as they once were, but the glow is enough to highlight the shiny, bright patches along the insides of his knuckles, just above his palm. He gently, carefully run the forefinger of one hand over the irritated skin of the other, over the three small bubbles lifting from the red.

Blisters are not a completely unfamiliar phenomenon. Long ago, when he first started travelling, he hadn’t bothered to spend the money on a decent pair of boots. He was younger then, of course, and more than a bit of an idiot. But he’d walked ten miles, twenty, a hundred in the cheapest pair he could find—the only pair he could afford at the time, in his defense—and the blisters had seemed near never-ending. Thankfully, upon investing in the old, cobbled brown boots now cradling his ankles, they all but vanished.

Blisters on his hands, however, are new. They shouldn’t be, he thinks, noting the fact that he throws fire around on a regular basis, but magic is tricky that way, and Caleb is skilled, even if he can’t aim worth shit.

Sadly, it would seem he’s less skilled with ropes. Particularly the act of climbing them.

“Keep makin’ that face and it’ll get stuck that way.”

Caleb jumps, slamming his hands facedown on the table in front of him in a moment of surprise. It takes less than a second for him to realize his mistake and wince, hissing between clenched teeth as his swollen skin throbs angrily. He keeps his eyes closed tightly, breathes through his nose, as Fjord drops heavily onto the chair beside him, the legs groaning against the stone of the floor as Fjord drags it out.

“You were lookin’ pretty focused, there,” he says, voice soft and coaxing. “Something interesting find its way onto your hands?”

Caleb takes a final deep breath. “If you find pus and ruined skin interesting, perhaps.” His answer is a bit snappier, a bit more sarcastic than he intended, and he finally turns his head, glancing at Fjord for the first time since his sudden arrival.

His focus is on the same place Caleb’s had been moments before. “Blisters? From when you slipped?”

Caleb grumbles quietly, an irritated tone. “And then some.”

Fjord makes a noise, somewhere between a grunt and a hum, easily heard in the surprising quiet of their current lodgings at two in the morning. The Mighty Nein, recently returned, numbers most of the heads that can be counted, and even their loudest members can be found having relatively muted conversations.

“They hurt?”

Fjord’s voice is the loudest thing in Caleb’s ear even though it’s taken a soft turn. Quiet but clear, warm and unobtrusive, it makes something in Caleb’s chest shift.

“I—” Whatever moved around lodges itself in his throat, so he stops and tries again. “Um. A bit.”

Fjord nods and taps his clawed fingers against the wood of the table, looking at Caleb’s face with the same sort of intensity that Caleb assumes he must have been directing at his own hands earlier. It’s intimidating, to say the least, and Caleb is opening his mouth to ask after a reason for it when Fjord stands.

“I’ll be right back,” he says. “Don’t go anywhere, alright?”

Caleb blinks as Fjord turns, processing. It takes several moments, and by the time Caleb comes back to his senses, slightly less shocked by Fjord’s sudden command and withdrawal, Fjord is across the room at the bar where Nott and Jester have settled themselves in with dice, a handful of ridiculous games, and a thankfully amused innkeeper. Caleb watches Fjord ruffle Nott’s already messy hair while turning his face towards the man behind the counter. The words exchanged are too quiet for Caleb to hear, but the man nods and dips to grab something out of view.

Then Fjord turns his attention to Nott, half a glance spared at Jester with a smile. Once more, whatever he says is lost on Caleb, but he figures it has something to do with him when Nott turns with a grin, her tiny, clawed hand rising in an excited little wave. Caleb waves back, squinting to follow her movements as she turns back to Fjord, reaches between the loose folds of her shirt, and hands something to him.

It's then that the innkeeper comes back into view and passes a tankard off to Fjord, and then, with a nod and what Caleb doesn’t doubt is a thank you, he turns and starts making his way back. Caleb hasn’t moved, but he does go still as Fjord sets his newly-acquired items down on the table.

The tankard is almost empty, surprisingly. There’s a small amount of clear liquid at the bottom that Caleb must lean towards just to see. A whiff of something strong catches on his nose, the aroma sharp and unpleasant. Liquor of some kind, probably more aptly contained in a miniscule shot glass and downed without thought for taste.

Next to it is a relatively clean looking rag. Next to that is a rather familiar looking wooden box.

“Is that Nott’s sewing kit?” he asks with a squint, even though he doesn’t really need to. He’s more than familiar with the wooden box’s worn-down corners, the scratches covering the sliding lid that equate to a rough estimation of what Caleb has always assumed are Nott’s initials. That sewing kit—and Nott being as surprisingly adept at putting it to good use as she is—is the only reason his coat is still alive and well.

Fjord nods. “Mighty handy little tool,” he says as he slides the lid of the box back, revealing the few spools of colorful thread Nott had amassed, mostly from the pockets of other people, and a handful of needles poking out of the chest of an old doll.

The previous topic of conversation having been Caleb’s skin, the doll feels a bit more foreboding than it usually does.

“Blisters hardly require stitches, my friend,” he says, breaths coming a tad bit shorter.

Thankfully, it’s apparently not noticeable, as Fjord simply smiles and plucks one of the needles from the doll, holding out his other hand with his palm up, eyes bright as they meet Caleb’s. Uncertainty crawls along Caleb’s stomach, an old companion that refuses to leave and drags up a small amount of fear with its arrival.

Fjord wiggles the fingers of his open hand, dark brows raising. It takes a moment, but something in Caleb’s chest reluctantly gives way. His shoulders still tense—he wasn’t fool enough to think they’d do otherwise, not with his breaths increasingly short and sharp as they are—but he gingerly sets one of his hands in Fjord’s palm, the other curling in his lap. He watches the hand with the needle, waiting for it to move, to stab into the meat of his hand and justify the crawling in his gut.

Instead, Fjord’s hand curls gently around his own, clawed thumb cautiously rubbing slowly over the dip of Caleb’s palm.

“I ain’t gonna hurt you, Caleb.”

Caleb releases a shameful, wracked breath into the air between them. He hates it for what it is—an obvious admission of the irrational fear building blocks in his bones without his permission. But, with it, the tension in his shoulders and back begins to trickle out. Fjord doesn’t say anything as it does. Doesn’t push. He just pokes the needle back into the doll and waits, thumb a quiet, constant pressure against Caleb’s fate line.

Caleb breathes.

“I’m—” He chokes again and stops to collect himself. Clears his throat on another deep breath. “I apologize.”

“S’alright,” Fjord mumbles, low and soft like the tide. “Take your time.”

Caleb does. He breathes in through his nose, grounding himself on the smell of slightly damp wood and petrichor, on the feeling of Fjord’s fingers. And then he breathes out through his mouth. It’s likely less than a minute, but it’s more than enough for a good amount of the stress to melt out of his muscles and his rational thought to return in its stead.

Fjord’s thumb presses down, just a bit.

“You good?” he asks, just as gentle as before.

Breathing out through his nose once more, Caleb nods.

“Alright,” Fjord starts. “Sorry, probably shoulda given you some warning.”

Caleb shakes his head, lifts his free hand to wave it about. “It’s… alright.”

Fjord nods. “I’m just gonna pop the blisters. Make ‘em a little more manageable for you,” he says. “Sound like a plan?”

Caleb lifts his free hand to his face, rubbing the back of his wrist into one of his eyes in an effort to stave off the sudden weariness. “I thought you were supposed to _not_ pop blisters.”

“You’re not wrong, but hands are a rough spot.” Fjord nods at the sewing kit on the table, but he doesn’t move towards it until Caleb nods as well. With the all clear, though, he reaches over to pull one of the needles free once more. “The little suckers are gonna pop before they’re ready no matter what. Best to do it where you can take care of ‘em.”

Caleb stares at the needle. “That… makes sense.”

“Glad you think so,” Fjord says quietly. He turns his attention to the hand in his palm and pulls it towards him a bit, leans forward as he braces Caleb’s hand against his knee.

Carefully, he sets the sharp point of the needle against the first blister.

Thankfully, the process doesn’t take long. Each prick is sharp but quick. Just enough to make Caleb flinch, but each time Fjord’s thumb is there to rub over his palm, distracting from the mild pain as the blisters begin to empty onto his irritated skin. A few moments and all of the blisters on Caleb’s left hand have been dealt with, and Fjord is leaning over to wipe the needle on the rag sitting next to the tankard before sticking it back into the doll in Nott’s sewing kit, right where its heart would have been.

“This is gonna sting a mite,” Fjord says as he takes the rag up in hand and dips it in the small amount of liquor in the tankard on the table.

Caleb clenches his jaw in preparation, and then Fjord gently brushes the wet cloth over his skin. The alcohol worming its way into his wounds does sting, but it’s hardly enough to warrant a warning. If anything, the pressure hurts more, and even that is barely an ache. Any anxiety lingering in Caleb’s breast dissipates like a drop of blood in a clear river.

With his head clear, his shoulders relaxed, he realizes that, at some point, he’d leaned forward in his chair. Closer to Fjord.

A quiet flush crawls up his neck, and he leans back as subtly as he can. “Thank you. For your help.”

Fjord smiles and lets go of Caleb’s hand for the first time since Caleb initially set it in his palm. “Don’t be thankin’ me yet,” he starts. “Still got a whole other hand to go.”

And with that he reaches across the still somewhat small amount of space between them to grab Caleb’s other hand, pulling it back down to sit on his palm, balanced on his knee. Then he twists to pull a needle free once more.

Caleb laughs quietly, awkwardly. “I have a feeling the chances of you doing something incorrect are rather miniscule,” he says, ignoring the heat gathering at the back of his neck. “I do not think my hands are the first to receive this treatment.”

“Not by a long shot,” Fjord snorts with a half-smile. He pricks the first blister on Caleb’s right hand. “New hands always end up lookin’ like this on a boat.”

Caleb hums, but otherwise bites his tongue. Fjord has only mentioned his history as a sailor a handful of times and, while Caleb is curious, he has no intention of prying. Gods know he has things he doesn’t talk about. Things he keeps to himself for a reason.

Tonight, however, Fjord apparently doesn’t seem to have the same hang-up.

“I remember, couple’a years ago,” he starts, carefully pricking at another blister, “this kid. Must’ve been about seventeen. Burned the skin on his fingers near clean off before I managed to pull him aside and fix him up a bit. Hell, and when I asked him why he hadn’t said somethin’ sooner, he—” An unfairly attractive snort of laughter bubbles up and out of his mouth. “He said he didn’t wanna look like a pansy.”

A warm smile, left behind by the laughter, sticks to his lips as he shakes his head, and Caleb lets himself admire it for a moment. Fjord often looks fond—of Jester, of Nott, sometimes Caleb even thinks he catches it directed at him on occasion—but this is… different. Deeper, somehow. Overwhelming.

And then Fjord’s eyes flicker up, meet Caleb’s with that smile still in place.

“Glad I caught you a bit quicker,” he says, eyes warm.

Caleb swears that something in his chest bursts.

Fjord’s head ducks back down, and, beneath the dirt and grime on his face, Caleb’s cheeks flush crimson. He feels like he’s swallowed a handful of cotton, his mouth dry, and he doesn’t quite trust himself to speak without making a fool of himself. He’d like to. He’d keep Fjord talking for years if he could, he thinks. But instead he stays quiet, patiently waiting and watching as Fjord finishes with the blisters of his right hand. It doesn’t take long—a handful of moments—and then Fjord takes up the rag once more. It finds the skin of his hand, and this time Caleb barely notices the sting or pressure of Fjord’s fingers against his aching, freshly popped blisters.

“Aw, shit, forgot somethin’ to wrap you up in,” Fjord says suddenly. Some of the warmth is gone from his voice, but Caleb only has a few moments to think about it before Fjord is lifting Caleb’s hand from his knee and pulling the other one to the rag, fingers wrapped gently around the heel of Caleb’s palm. “You wanna finish this up while I go find Jester?”

“Uh…” Caleb stumbles, jarred by the sudden shift in energy.

“Just keep dabbin’ at ‘em,” Fjord says.

Both of his hands are curled around Caleb’s smaller ones, hiding them from the world in some sort of strange imitation of a scene from one of the many romance novels Caleb had indulged in when he was younger.

Fjord stands. “Back in a tick.”

And then he’s retreating for the second time, fingers trailing over the back of Caleb’s hands, claws tickling the thin skin.

Caleb watches him go. Jester and Nott are no longer at the bar, and he wonders how they’d managed to leave the room without loudly announcing their departure, as is common. The thought leaves him as Fjord turns to climb the stairs, eyes stuck there until Fjord’s ankle disappears onto the second story. With his distraction cleared from view, he looks back down at his hands, pressing perhaps a bit too hard on his now tender skin.

His mind wanders to other things.

Namely, Fjord on a boat.

He’s wondered from time to time what kind of sailor Fjord had been. Once he’d dreamed of Fjord sailing under a black flag decorated with a skull and cross-bones, eyes lined in dark charcoal, ragged clothes pulled over his broad shoulders. Nothing could be more inaccurate, of course. Caleb has only read one or two books about pirates, but he knows Fjord is too kind, too concerned with the needs and safety of others to have been one.

No, it’s far more likely that Fjord was a simple merchant sailor. Lifting crates, sweating under the sun and seeing the world, carrying the wares of people who thought themselves more important. Fjord following the directions of another. Apparently keeping an eye on the younger crewmates.

It fits. Caleb can picture it, if he closes his eyes. People of all shapes, sizes, and races baking beneath the sun, and Fjord at his place in the middle, just a bit taller than those around him. Younger. Smiling despite the sweat dampening his shirt.

“Alright! Let’s finish patching you up.”

Caleb nearly topples over in his chair, Fjord’s voice dragging his eyes open and his heart into his throat. He gasps, mumbles a curse under his breath, and sets his chin against his chest, trying to calm his suddenly rapid heartbeat.

“You move very quietly for such a large man, my friend,” he says through quick breaths.

Fjord grins—somewhere between amused and flattered, Caleb thinks—and sits down again. In his hand is a roll of stark white gauze, which he starts unrolling as he shuffles his chair even closer to Caleb’s.

“Appreciate the compliment, but I think that had more to do with your head bein’ in the clouds than me actually bein’ quiet.”

Caleb hums, pushing his previous thoughts to the back of his mind, mostly to keep himself from tripping over them while the man of their focus is less than a foot away. His hand moves almost without thought, offering itself to Fjord’s larger, gentle ones. Fjord presses the end of the gauze into the skin just below Caleb’s forefinger and beings to wind it around, weaving it between Caleb’s digits.

It’s at this point that Caleb notes they’re almost done. That, in a few moments, Fjord will have no reason to keep his hands anywhere in Caleb’s vicinity, much less curled around his palm. Something quiet frowns in Caleb’s chest, but he ignores it to the best of his ability, instead focusing on the practiced way Fjord wraps his hand, the small, secure knot he ties off at the back.

The other hand goes just as quickly, and, before Caleb is ready, Fjord pulls his hand back, wrapping up the leftover gauze and tucking it away in a pocket.

Caleb flexes his fingers, and the thing frowning in his chest shivers and sighs. “This is much better. Thank you,” he says. He keeps his eyes on his hands, admiring the intricate pattern to the wrapping, practiced and familiar. Far more organized than those he sometimes wears. Fjord's touch is written in the precision, and it’s easier to stare at the man’s handiwork than it is to even glance at his face, it seems.

“Well, you’re welcome.” Fjord’s voice is soft, warm, and more than enough to solidify Caleb’s inability to look him in the eye. “Still not quite done yet, though.”

Despite that, however, Caleb’s eyes jump up, brow wrinkling in confusion.

Fjord’s expression is—odd. Neutral, but artificially so. The tight set to his lips sets Caleb a bit on edge. It’s not a familiar look.

“What else is there to do?” Caleb asks.

His eyes catch on Fjord’s throat bobbing as he swallows.

Caleb has seen Fjord nervous a handful of times. He can clearly remember the way Fjord’s face had contorted at the bath house on their first time in Zadash. It had been amusing, a little disquieting. Fjord was such a consistently grounded presence that seeing him nervous sent something primal in Caleb running. The face he’s making now is similar to that one, but not the same.

Caleb can’t place it.

“Here,” Fjord starts, holding out his hand in a gesture that is as familiar as breathing, at this point, “lemme show you.”

Caleb’s heart beats a peculiar rhythm as he, once more, places his hand in Fjord’s open, inviting palm. Fjord smiles—an awkward thing that pikes the tentative curiosity bubbling in Caleb’s chest—and Caleb things maybe, just _maybe_ , that face had been one of trepidation.

Fjord pulls Caleb’s hand up to his mouth.

A kiss. Soft, barely there, but a kiss nonetheless, brushed against the fresh gauze. Fjord’s eyes are closed, brow pinched, and he doesn’t linger long, regretfully. Caleb just barely stops himself from opening his mouth to protest when Fjord lowers their hands, but his ears and cheeks burn, and he hopes—prays, even though he’s not the sort—that the dirt on his skin hides it at least a little.

When Fjord hesitantly reaches for the hand sitting in Caleb’s lap, yellow eyes flickering to meet Caleb’s blue with a silent question, somehow, without order or instruction, his hand moves into Fjord’s own, granting the permission Caleb would have been too afraid to, given the chance.

The process is no less overwhelming the second time around. If anything, it gets Caleb’s heart beating even faster, makes his head feel even lighter. It lasts longer—it must—and the tip of Fjord’s nose brushes over Caleb’s palm, his lips linger, and Caleb’s fingers twitch as a pleasant itch begins to bloom around his knuckles.

And then it’s over. Fjord leans back in his chair, trailing his fingertips over the knot of gauze on the back of Caleb’s hand. Caleb’s eyes hurry to find something, anything, to cling to, his hand limp in the space between them. The spell fades.

Fjord clears his throat, reaching up to rub his hand across the back of his neck. “Gauze, uh, probably woulda been fine,” he says, voice an uncharacteristic scratch. “But a little TLC goes a long way, so…”

“Yes, I’ve—” Caleb chokes on his words. “I’ve heard that. Yes.”

He flinches and immediately wishes he’d had the presence of mind to shove his fist in his mouth before he could speak, instead of waiting for his fucking foot to find its way there.

Fjord’s chuckle wavers as he pushes his chair back and slowly gets to his feet. Caleb bites his tongue, works up the bravery to focus on Fjord’s chin—close enough to his eyes but not on them. He’s slightly comforted by the fact that Fjord seems to be worse off, eyes bouncing between the tables around them. His hands are just as restless, one grabbing at his opposite shoulder while the other latches onto whatever part of him it can find.

“If they start giving you an issue, just let me know, alright?” Fjord says, his grappling hand settling on a gesture at Caleb’s, now curled up near his stomach. “I’ll fix you right up.”

As Fjord’s hand drops back to his side, Caleb itches to do a lot of things. He wants to reach out and explore Fjord’s hands in the same way Fjord had gotten to explore his. He wants to pull Fjord back down, to have him sit so their knees touch while he asks Fjord what kind of sailor he was. He wants Fjord to kiss a part of him that isn’t covered by rough, sterile fabric.

But all he can do is nod, keep his eyes fixed on Fjord’s chin, and continue to bite his tongue in a desperate hope to hold back the quiet noise building in his chest.

Fjord breathes, and even that feels like nearly too much to Caleb in the moment. “Okay. Good.” He takes half a step closer and then freezes, hands balled at his sides. “You, uh—” He stops, clears his throat, and tries again, once more composed. “You sleep well, okay? Don’t stay up too late.”

Caleb jerks his head again, tongue a dead weight in his mouth, at this point. He catches a hint of a pout on Fjord’s lips—just for a moment—and then Fjord is taking a step back, putting the chair he’d been sitting on between them.

“Alright,” he says, breathes. “Night. Sleep tight—”

“Don’t let the bedbugs bite.”

Fjord stops with his hand on the back of the chair and a smile growing on his face. “Yeah. Don’t let the bedbugs bite.”

And then he’s turning to make his way towards the stairs he’d retreated up earlier. Caleb watches him go, eyes caught firmly on the spot between his broad shoulder blades. Once he’s out of view, back nor boots still within sight, Caleb practically falls back against his chair, tension and nerves bleeding out in a split second.

He’s not sure how long he sits there. It’s just enough time for the head at the back of his neck to die down to a manageable amount, for his legs to regain their ability to move on their own.

Then he rises, breathes, and moves to get a start on not staying up too late.

 

**Author's Note:**

> You can find me on tumblr [@asexualshepard](http://asexualshepard.tumblr.com/)


End file.
